Venus as a Boy by Naomi Darvell, Nov 28 1997

'Don't worry; we're not gonna be late,' Ron said. There was the
faintest edge of irritation to his voice. He popped the clutch
of his vintage TR6-- deliberately, I thought-- as we left the
parking lot.

It was our third date, and I wasn't ready to screw things up by
nagging at Ron. He was exactly my type-- slightly geeky but with
a cool ponytail; thin withought being weedy; when he took off his
glasses, pretty to the point of being... 'epicene' was the word
my English teacher liked. Ron also had a delightfully nasty
sense of humor.

Ron was delicious, but he didn't understand how seriously my
college took violations of curfew. It was a delicate matter. In
our dorm, as in most others, any girl coming in late more than
once would give up dating privileges for a week-- or more,
depending on the frequency and the degree of lateness. Since last
year, however, my house had adopted a different practice. A small
group of juniors went to Miss Hanson, the junior field hockey
coach, and our head resident. I didn't hear the conversation-- I
was a freshman at the time-- but the reult was that we got to
vote on whether or not to replace groundings with paddling. For
me it was an easy choice: I grew up in boarding school, where it
was always preferable to bend over and 'take your swats,' rather
than accept demerits, which might add up to long periods of house
arrest, extra study hall, or unpleasant kitchen duty.
What I didn't allow for was the different style of punishment.
The only 'constant' was the use of a small, light school paddle.
I don't know what school Miss Hanson went to, but she was not
satisfied with bending a girl over and paddling the seat of her
shorts or trousers, or lifting her skirt and warming the seat of
her panties.

I saw my first spanking one Saturday night in October, when I
joined some other dateless girls in front of the television in
the common room. The late movie was almost over when Mandy, a
nice and rather studious girl, appeared at the double glass
doors, which were of course locked at that hour. My friend Joan
jumped up so that Mandy would not have to ring the buzzer, which
would of course bring Miss Hanson from her first-floor apartment.
'Thanks a million, Mandy said, smiling-- only to look downcast
when Miss Hanson came out, wearing pyjamas and carrying the
paddle. Her long blond hair was down around her shoulders and she
wore no makeup, which-- along with the pyjamas-- made her look
weirdly young.

Miss Hanson walked over to Mandy and stood there tapping the
paddle against her opem palm. Mandy clearly expected to be
escorted to Miss Hanson's room or at least to a quiet corner; but
Miss Hanson said, 'Right here, Mandy.'

Mandy had clearly been to a school like mine. She had no coat to
take off; she simply put the stuff the'd been carrying on the
floor and bent over, keeping her head down and holding the calves
of her legs. A sensual thrill went though me at the way she stuck
her blue-jeaned bottom out for the paddle.

'No, Mandy,' said Miss Hanson. 'Bring me that chair over there.'
Mandy went to the desk where girls on 'front door duty' sat
during the day, buzzing visitors an and accepting deliveries.
She brought the gaunt, straight-backed chair over to Miss Hanson,
who sat down and patted her knee. 'Get those jeans down.'
'Come on, Miss Hanson,' Mandy said. 'Not with everyone here.'
'They can leave if they want,' said Miss Hanson. We all headed
for the stairway-- no one wanted to face a ticked-off Mandy the
next day-- but we moved slowly enough that we all got an eyeful
of Mandy's big, firm bottom in little red cotton panties bouncing
around on Miss Hanson's knee.

After that, on the rare occasions when I had a date, I made sure
to go out wearing respectable panties offering a lot of
coverage-- a precaution that payed off when some guy named Dave--
definitely not worth the spanking I got-- dragged his feet about
leaving a stupid party. It was a week night, too, and everything
was dark as I ran up the stairs. As I plucked up my nerve to ring
the bell, I heard a voice behind me. 'Well, my naughty girl.' It
was Miss Hanson, coming in after me, presumably from some
gathering with her dykey friends in the athletics department.
'Let's paddle your bottom,' she said. She had obviously had a
good time, wherever she had been-- she did not seem the worse for
drink, but something had gotten her endorphins up. As we went
into the hall I saw with relief that this would not be a public
spanking; no one was around. I made as if to wait in the hall
while Miss Hanson fetched the paddle, but she said over her
shoulder, 'Come with me.'

I had been to her apartment before, for first-aid supplies and
things like that. It was quite a nice place, with trendier
furnishings than you might expect. An institutional
straight-backed chair seemed out of place near the door to the
kitchen; Miss Hanson must have brought it in for spankings here,
and I wondered how many of these took place.
Oddly, she gave me a little hug before she sat down and pulled me
across her sturdy lap. She turned up the skirt I was wearing. As
my bottom emerged, providently covered in thick cotton, I braced
my feet against the floor and turned up as smartly as possible,
presenting myself in what I hoped was an effective show of
obedience. This was how my nanny at home had positioned me for
her frequent hand spankings.

As if by accident, Miss Hason rested her free hand on my buttocks
as she gave me a preliminary scolding. 'I'm not going to spank
you too hard this time,' she said, 'Because it's the first. But
be assured that future occasions will be different. Hmm.. ' she
added, sounding bemused and no doubt noting my uptilted bottom,
'it looks like you've been spanked before.'
The paddle fell perhaps twenty or thirty times, during which I
never had to cry out, and I maintained my upturned position quite
easily. 'Good girl,' said Miss Hanson. 'Here; let me finish you
off by hand.' She dropped the paddle to the carpet and began
slapping my fanny on alternate sides. She spanked with loose
fingers, which felt almost pleasant; my bottom cheeks soon
relaxed completely, as if they were being massaged.
When the spanking was over I stood up almost reluctantly and
rubbed my own behind a bit, in no great discomfort nor in any
particular hurry to leave. I think I was vaguely withing that Miss
Hanson would take me on her lap and cuddle me, as my nanny used
to when I'd been spanked. Instead she stood up too, gave me
another hug and then drew away, but not without kissing me cheek
first. I slept on my tummy that night, not because I really
needed to but to pleasant sensation of having been mildly and
lovingly punished.

After that I saw several spankings in the front hall, while being
aware of others taking place in private. I was lucky enough to be
punished only in Miss Hanson's apartment. She was sincere when
she promised that subsequent paddlings would hurt more; on my
thrid trip to her apartment I collapsed in tears and she did take
me on her lap, stroking my hair and giving me little kisses on
the forehead. I had long since realized that Miss Hanson's
punishments affected me erotically: once, having rushed in after
quite a hot making-out session, I almost climaxed on my
punisher's lap, and I was awakened several times that night by
dreams which pushed me to the edge of orgasm, so that I had to
use my hand before falling asleep again.

Now I also began to get jealous of other girls who went to Miss
H.'s apartment for spankings, some of them frequently. I wondered
if they were all receiving similar gentle scoldings and
comforting kisses. Things got so bad that, by the time I started
dating Ron, it came as a huge relief that I could still get
excited over a boy. By the time of the first date, I wanted to
have sex with him. He kept bringing me home late; he was the
type who always liked to be slightly in violation of something. I
was too embarrassed to tell him about the paddling; the slight
edge of fear that persisted through each date, as looked ahead to
a sound bottom-warming, made me feel ever more excited and
vulnerable.

This third date had been frustrating. We stayed in the club too
long to do any making out at all. We shared a bottle of
Champagne and smoked cigarettes, and argued about when we were
going to sleep together. As we pulled up to the curb in front of
my dorm, I got ready to jump out of the car. The top was down,
although it was rather cold, and I planned to leap over the door
without even opening it. Ron was sort of a decadent type, but he
liked to be polite and always walked me to the door. So far I had
managed to get rid of him quickly on the front porch, but there
was always the danger that he would stand around long enough to
see Miss Hanson emerge, possible with paddle in hand.

This evening Miss Hanson must have gone around checking to see if
anyone was late: through the glass I could see the dreaded chair,
pulled out in front of the desk already and with the paddle
resting on the seat.

'What the hell is that?' asked Ron, peering into the dim
hallway.

'Don't ask me,' I said. 'Someone playing some kind of joke,' I
said.

'Or making a porno movie,' Ron suggested, laughing.

Miss Hanson came storming out of her apartment. At least she was
completely dressed, in jeans and a sweater. The instant she opened the
door I tried to squeeze through, but she flung it wide open.

'Well, who's this?' Miss Hanson said. 'Is this the person who's been
bringing you home late all month?'

Ron, damn him, looked about to explode with glee.

'Come on, Miss Hanson,' I said, 'this is too much.' She glared at me;
apparently she thought I was presuming on the familiarity between us. If she
had not been thinking of spanking me in front of Ron, this seemed to have
pushed her over the edge. She grabbed my wrist and pulled me towards her.
The sound of our argument had drawn people out of their rooms and down the
stairs as Miss hanson began ranting at me: 'You're a mess! You're out late
again and-- oh my God you've been smoking and drinking. You stink! I'm going
to turn you over my knee right now and this time it's going to be bare bottom.'

For the first time in my life I felt that sickening panic which is said to come
over people in situations where, for example, your father threatens to spank
you when you feel you are much too old. It was bad to be spanked in front of
my fellow students, many of whom had been through the same; but I wanted to
defend myself against a spanking in the presence of Ron.
I really made a serious attempt to escape; even when it was clear that Miss
hanson's iron grip on my wrist was not about to relax, she had to drag me over
to the chair. Then I refused to take my jeans down, and she had to pin me
between her lags and struggle with the tight fabric. While she was tugging at
my waistband Miss Hanson went on scolding: 'You're absolutely out of control
these days. What you need is a good sound spanking. Bend over! Now you'll get
that fanny tanned in front of that boyfriend of yours!"

The first spanks landed harmlessly on my panties. I couldn't feel anything;
I was so afraid and ashamed that I was having a kind of out-of-body experience.
'It's time to bare your bottom,' Miss Hanson said all of a sudden, and she
rudely grabbed my panties-- not even by the waistband, but by the material over
my butt-- and pulled them down.

'What's this?' she said. 'Do you think keeping your bottom hard will make it
hurt less?' This was far from what I thought. I had learned in the days of my
nanny that a bare-skin spanking stings far less on relaxed buttocks than on
clenched ones. I must have been tightening up involuntarily, out of
embarrassment at the realization that Ron was standing right behind me. I tried
to relax, with only partial success. The pain as the paddle came down right,
left, and center was shocking.

'Go on, get up,' Miss hanson said at last. I was weeping uncontrollably; she
pushed me off her lap. I stood and pulled up my panties, then my jeans. My
throbbing bottom felt twice its usual size. I wondered if I dared turn around
to where Ron was no doubt still watching. Before I could move he rushed over
and put his arms around me. 'Oh darling! I'm so sorry!' he said. He sounded
genuinely sorry, too.

'Get yourself upstairs,' Miss Hanson ordered, and I had to walk past all my
housemates, who were still standing around. Late as it was, I got into the
shower-- going to bed reking so badly of smoke was out of the question. When I
stepped out of the shower, there was Miss Hanson. I put on my robe,
deliberately not making a mad rush of it. I wanted to look nonchalant: she'd
seen everything, hadn't she?

'I apologize,' she said, speaking as if by rote. 'What I did was unacceptable.'

'Oh, I think he will,' she said enigmatically, but I only replied, 'I'm going
to bed.'

I was extremely angry. Even the seriousness of Ron's sympathy only
emphasized for me the ferocity of what Miss Hanson had done. I was angry with
myself as well, because I thought that her vehemence was likely to be in some
way a response to my own intense feelings, which in previous sessions I must
have allowed to show more than I realized.

The next day I was coming from Latin class when Ron popped out from behind a
building. Normally he was so elusive; it felt odd to find him hanging around
looking for me. We went to the Konditorei Bischoff for coffee-- or rather I had
hot chocolate. 'Mit Schlag?' Ron asked, and I had to laugh. The alternative was
to get embarrassed again.

'I felt so terrible over what happened to you!' said Ron. 'It will never
happen again if I can help it. Good God! Did it happen each of the other times
I brought you back late?' He didn't wait for an answer. 'It makes me... it
really makes me feel...' I was surprised that he could become so inarticulate.

'It reminds me,' he went on, 'of trips to the woodshed when I was a kid. There
really was a woodshed; my father would take us there. Being told you had to
go to the woodshed was like a death sentence.'

'I suppose it was,' I said. 'What did your father use?'

'A strap,' Ron said. 'He kept it there specially.'

'Well, last night was nothing like that.' I said. 'I've never been
strapped.' This discussion brought me and Ron closer together.
Certainly he never again brought me home late, and we went out more
frequently than ever. My relationship with Miss Hanson was another
thing. I absolutely hate it when someone does you an injury and then
feels so bad about it that you wind up having to take care of
their feelings as much as your own. Miss Hanson was absolutely
wretched, and she deserved to be. But after a few days I got tired of
intercepting her guilty looks across the dining hall. I called on her
in her apartment one evening. My heart softened when I saw how glad
she was to see me. She made tea for us and we talked for a long time.
At first she apologized, but I said emphatically that I couldn't bear
to re-hash the incident, so we just traded harmless bits of personal
information until she said, 'What's his name? Ron?' This came so out
of context that, fascinated by the boy though I was, I didn't at first
know what she was talking about.

'I sort of like that type myself,' she said. 'What? Did you think I
was a Lesbian?' 'Aren't we all, a bit?' I said, and she looked
pleasantly surprised, as if recognizing a fellow sophisticate. It was
patronizing, I thought. What was she? Five years older? She was
still talking about Ron:'You realize, he had a BIG boner when you were
lying there getting spanked.' 'Oh, don't tell me this...' '...and
you know, I wouldn't mind spanking his little butt some time.'

When I asked Ron if it was true, he admitted that he had been excited
by my spanking. I did not mention the other part of what she said--
about finding him attractive and wanting to spank him-- out of some
kind of jealousy. But I began to have fantasies in which both Ron and
I were to be spanked by Miss Hanson: he would go first, baring his
rear end and lying across her lap while reciving a scolding. By the
time she began spanking he would have an erection, and one
particularly hard whach would make him come all over her thighs--
which in my fantasy would be bare. I would throw myself down on her
wet lap to be spanked while Ron stood within my view, his trousers
still down and his cock halfway erect, rubbing his wounded backside.

As time went on I increasingly imagined spanking while I was with Ron. We had
begun spending most of our time in his apartment, locked up in his bedroom if
either of his roommates happened to be there, kissing and embracing, but still
not much else. One day, perhaps encouraged my some body language of mine, he
confessed that he would like to spank me. 'I won't hurt you,' he promised, and
I rolled over immediately and lifted my skirt. Luckily I had abandoned the
precautionary cotton panties for something more diaphanous. He whacked me
about a dozen times with his hand, and we went back to kissing. It soon became
a routine with us to kiss and fondle each other until the sexual tension became
agonizind, at which point Ron would take me over his knee and spank me, before
taking me in his arms for more kissing and fondling. I began removing my
panties and sometimes I asked him to spank me very hard; it seemed to
relieve the awful ache of longing. Several times, when no one else was at home,
we could no longer stand the tension and we masturbated togther. Once or twice
Ron even shot his sperm onto my burning bottom-cheeks, then took me into the
bathroom and tenderly washed it off. Ron expressed fear that I would arrive
home one day with a red bottom, only to encounter Miss Hanson and her paddle.
'What if she bares your bottom and sees it's been spanked already?' he asked--
and this became another fantasy of mine. In reality it never happened: I
stopped arriving late, and Miss Hanson seemed to have no desire ever to spank
me again.

That was my last year of living in college. In June I moved in with Ron. I
don't know whether it is good or bad for our erotic life that every time he
makes love to me I either have just been spanked or am looking forward to a
spanking afterward.